


Klaine Advent Drabble Challenge 2013 Collection

by foramomentonly



Category: Glee
Genre: Klaine Advent Drabble Challenge 2013, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:13:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 8,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foramomentonly/pseuds/foramomentonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my compiled works from the Klaine Advent Drabble Challenge this year (2013).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Belong

Kurt anticipates a brief -- or, more likely, extended -- adjustment period when Blaine moves into the loft in early September, but the last place he expects to encounter it is in their bedroom.  
It's not their sex life that is the problem -- "Far from it," he tells Rachel with a lascivious wink -- but, rather, their sleeping arrangements. Kurt didn't notice the problem those first few nights, collapsing against his pillow in a sweaty, sated, and thoroughly-fucked heap, and slipping into blissfully exhausted repose. And he has no cause to expect it; the couple have never shared a bed for longer than a brief afternoon nap, the kind that practically necessitates waking plastered to a warm body and rutting against a half-hard cock.  
But now that Kurt is facing weeks of non-stop rehearsals, advanced motion classes, and late nights at Vogue.com, he requires a full six hours sleep minimum. Which, unfortunately, is a limit he can't reach if Blaine spends five and half of those hours clinging to Kurt like a starfish and snoring incessantly in his ear.  
But, the key to any relationship, Kurt has learned through trial by fire, is communication, and so Kurt slips into bed one night determined to firmly, but lovingly tell Blaine that his body is not Blaine's damn life-size boyfriend pillow.  
Kurt sinks back into his extra large pillow, a random book from his bedside table propped up on his lap. Almost immediately, Blaine's body rolls onto his side toward Kurt, head on the mattress next to Kurt's torso and hands folded angelically beneath his cheek.  
"No man's land," Kurt whispers with a fond smile.  
Blaine's wide eyes blink lazily.  
"What?"  
"You're entering no man's land," Kurt explains, "and pretty soon you'll be on my side of the bed. I love you, Blaine, but...boundaries."  
Kurt isn't really anticipating an epic throw down, but Blaine's sleepy, adoring smile is unexpected. Blaine rolls his compact body further still, resting half atop Kurt, his chin resting on his hands, his hands flat against Kurt's bare chest. He blinks again.  
"Are you saying I don't belong here?" Blaine's tone is teasing, his full lips twisting into an exaggerated pout.  
"I'm invading your space? Your bed? Your New York bachelor's life?"  
Kurt detects a hint of uncertainty in Blaine’s jest, lingerings of insecurity and fear, and he caresses Blaine's cheek with gentle fingers.  
"Of course not, love," he soothes, carding his fingers through Blaine's damp curls, "you belong right here."  
Blaine's lip curl into a small, contented smile, and Kurt covers them briefly with his own.  
"However," he says crisply, breaking the kiss abruptly, "you also belong on the left side of our New York bed, if I am ever going to get a full night's sleep. Boundaries, Blaine. Also, nose strips."  
Blaine huffs a frustrated sigh that is betrayed by his giggling, and shifts to allow a foot of empty bed between himself and his fiancé.  
"So long to the honeymoon stage, I guess."


	2. Statuesque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: NC-17 (Whoops!)
> 
> Word Count: 601
> 
> Prompt: Consume

“What are you doing? We’re going to be late,” Kurt says as he brushes past Blaine.

“I’m logging my consumption points from lunch,” Blaine replies, eyes on his tablet.

“Your what?”

“Huh?” Blaine finally looks up from his device when he realizes Kurt is no longer flitting about the room, searching for his favorite broach.

“What the hell are ‘consumption points’?” Kurt asks, hand on a cocked hip and eyes narrow.

Blaine shrugs self-consciously, avoiding both Kurt’s searching gaze and the reflection of his own softly protruding belly in the full length mirror.

“I downloaded a diet and exercise app last week. I-I’ve put on some weight and I thought it would melt off once classes started and I got in the studio, but that alone isn’t really working, so…”

Kurt raises an eyebrow, but returns to his search without comment.

* * *  
“Jesus, Kurt, you are f-fucking beautiful,” Blaine pants against the curve of Kurt’s neck, eyes locked on the mirror before them. It’s Blaine’s new favorite position; standing before the full length mirror, his own body shielded by his gorgeous, lithe, and oh-so-naked fiancée. He loves that it accords him full access to Kurt’s body, direct contact with his hazy blue gaze, and a perfect view of Kurt’s features as he casts off control and poise for pleasure. 

Not to mention that it always feels so fucking good.

Like now, as Blaine’s slick cock slides snug between Kurt’s round cheeks, and his greedy palms rake Kurt’s broad chest and abdomen.

“You’re like a statue, K-Kurt. Oh, god!”

Blaine’s hands slide downward, one grasping Kurt’s cock and the other digging into his hip.

“Your waist, I -“ Blaine’s babbling is silenced when Kurt tisks and takes one small step forward.

“Wha- No, come ba-”

“Shh,” Kurt silences him as he steps around Blaine’s body and wraps his arms around Blaine’s torso, careful to distance their hips. Blaine tries to turn in Kurt’s embrace, but Kurt holds him steady, their eyes locked in the mirror.

“You are incredibly sexy,” Kurt whispers slowly, deliberately into Blaine’s ear, hushing him again when he attempts to protest, “You’ve been quite vocal in your appreciation of my body, Blaine. Let me return the favor.”

Kurt’s fingers graze Blaine’s throat.

“I love how prominent your Adam’s Apple is. It drives me crazy when you swallow.”

Kurt’s hands cup Blaine’s shoulders and smooth down his biceps, then rake blunt fingernails up his thighs.

“You’re so small, but I love feeling the strength in your muscles. Love biting into them.”

And then Kurt palms Blaine’s small gut.

“No, Kur-”

“Shh, not finished,” Kurt shushes him, batting away Blaine’s hands as they move to cover his belly.

“This is my favorite part,” he whispers, “the slope of your stomach. Love how responsive you are.” 

Kurt circles a finger lazily around Blaine’s belly button before trailing it rhythmically up and down his pelvis. Blaine shivers under the heat of Kurt’s gaze and the teasing brushes of his touch.

“You are beautiful, Blaine, and sexy. Every single part of you. Do you believe me?”

Kurt’s hand finally moves to Blaine’s aching cock and strokes slowly, dry friction that still makes his fingertips tingle. Blaine catches his own reflection in the mirror; skin flushed, chest and belly heaving, hard, leaking erection sheathed in pale fingers, and this body that responds so eagerly to the machinations of the man behind him could never be ugly.

“Yes,” he breathes, and Kurt smirks, shifting again to drop to his knees in front of Blaine.

“Good,” he purrs. “Now why don’t you watch me earn some consumption points?”


	3. Comfort Zones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Dirt
> 
> Rating: PG-13
> 
> Word Count: 460

“I’m sorry, are they making love on a pile of dirt?” Blaine cries, turning away from the television on which the first season of True Blood is currently screening to stare aghast at Kurt.  
“Uh, I think what they are doing right now would constitute fucking, Blaine,” Kurt deadpans, smirking at the guttural, almost pained grunts of the on-screen couple.  
Blaine rolls his eyes.  
“Fine. Are they fucking in the dirt right now?”  
Kurt smiles again, this time as his fiancée’s adorably wrinkled nose and prim disapproval.  
“Says the man who wanted to cover me in chocolate syrup and lick me clean last Valentine’s Day,” Kurt huffs a laugh and continues, “I believe your exact words at the time were, ‘Where is your sense of erotic adventure, Kurt?’.”  
Blaine pouts.  
“That is totally different. Chocolate syrup is edible and highly unlikely to be infested with insects, and --” Blaine lowers his voice conspiratorially and scans the apartment, despite the fact that Rachel and Santana are both at the diner, “dirt is just so dry. Ouch.”  
Kurt snorts.  
“From what I understand, most het couples under the age of eighty don’t have to worry so much about lubrication.”  
Blaine is clearly still squeamish, unconsciously shifting further away from Kurt on the couch. Kurt grins and crawls slowly toward Blaine, covering his compact body with his own and subtly rotating his hips against Blaine’s.  
“Are you telling me,” Kurt asks, placing wet kisses down Blaine’s jaw and neckline, “ that if I laid out a beautiful picnic for us, with wine and fruit and cheese and organic dark chocolate; then laid you tenderly down in the grass and slowly undressed you, maybe sucking on your Adam’s Apple the way you love --” Kurt cuts himself off to do just as he described, lips attached to Blaine’s neck and hands sliding his shirt up and over his head.  
Blaine moans.  
“And I suddenly rolled you on top of me --” It takes a bit of maneuvering on the narrow couch, but Kurt manages to situate himself under Blaine and resumes his slow grind.   
“But, whoops!” he whispers into a now clearly aroused and achingly hard Blaine’s ear, “I rolled us into a dirt pile. Are you telling me you would ask me to stop and relocate?”   
Blaine groans and shifts restlessly when Kurt stills the motion of his hips, grinding down into Kurt eagerly.  
Kurt chuckles and wraps his legs around Blaine’s waist.  
“Totally different scenarios,” Blaine gasps as his hips gain speed and Kurt move with fervor to match his motions.  
“God, shut up, Blaine,” Kurt says breathlessly, pulling Blaine down by the nape of his neck for a hard kiss, “and let’s show those over-acting screamers how to really make love.”


	4. Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Echo
> 
> Rating: G
> 
> Word Count: 217

“The acoustics aren’t great,” Kurt notes, planting himself in the center of the large, dark loft. “If I stand right here, I can hear my own voice kind of whispering back at me.”  
Blaine slinks up behind him from the kitchen area, wrapping his arms around Kurt’s waist.  
“Are you planning on belting out arias in our living room?”  
Kurt smiles, his whole body instantly and unconsciously relaxing back into the comfort and warmth of his husband’s embrace.  
“We’re two musical theatre graduates, Blaine. You never know.”  
Blaine murmurs a concession into Kurt’s hair, then hooks his chin over Kurt’s shoulder.  
“It’s in our price range, it’s not far from the subway, and it’s not a shoebox in Manhattan we’d have to share with four other people. I know you’re looking for perfection, honey, but I don’t think you’re going to find it in a start-up apartment we rent in the city at twenty-four.”  
Kurt huffs a sigh and turns in Blaine’s arms, linking his hands behind Blaine’s neck.  
“You’re right,” he breathes, planting a small kiss on Blaine’s nose. “And, besides, any place will be perfect as long as it’s ours.”  
“As long as it’s ours,” Blaine echoes, leaning in for another kiss.  
“Ours”, whispers the echo from the upper left corner of the drafty space.


	5. Wax and Wane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Falter
> 
> Word Count: 1,773
> 
> Rating: PG-13

The second time they break up, it’s Kurt who falters.

Kurt is twenty-one and works full time as Isabelle’s assistant, having left NYADA after a demoralizing year during which lessons and practice hours became the arduous tasks Kurt suffered through before racing to spend a few rewarding hours at Vogue.com. Isabelle informs Kurt one day that a designer friend of hers is looking to hire a couple rookies in the fashion industry as assistants for a summer project in Paris; it will mostly entail minor hemming and adjustment work, but the experience will stand out on a resume, and Isabelle has already whispered Kurt’s name in the designer’s ear. She hands him a phone number, and when he hesitates, adds earnestly, “This could be the beginning of Kurt Hummel, fashion visionary. I hope you’ll at least consider it.”

Kurt rushes home to the loft to discuss the prospect with Blaine. He expects hesitancy from his fiancé; he anticipates a heated debate in which he will defend his right to seek opportunity and growth independently and comfort Blaine’s lingering insecurities of failure and abandonment. But he is met with a supportive and ecstatic Blaine, who claps his hands in wonderment and insists Kurt make the call tonight.

Kurt boards a plane in June and finds a hand-made “Good Luck!” card from Blaine in his carry on, bittersweet sentiments penned in Blaine’s perfect cursive on the inside cover: “Every day I will miss you, but every day I will smile knowing you are over there building a fabulous career for yourself and a wonderful future for us. I love you!” Kurt shakes his head with a smile; Blaine’s scrapbooking is truly out of control, he thinks as he presses the card in between the pages of a book. Still, when he gets to his hotel room, he almost unconsciously sticks the card in the corner of the mirror above his bureau.

* * *  
The first month he is away, Kurt nearly drowns in homesickness. Relocating to New York at eighteen had seemed effortless, but while Kurt has attributed this fact to his own independence and strength, he realizes now that he leaned largely on the familiarity of old friends and the instant connections with new ones to ease the transition. The designer -- Kurt’s boss -- is friendly and respectful, and his fellow assistants are personable and sharp, but no one Kurt has met in Paris has Isabelle’s openness and warmth, Rachel’s challenging brand of encouragement, nor Blaine’s comfort and acceptance.

Kurt works hard, always the first and the most sincere offerer of overtime, and he spends his nights and weekends in his hotel room, Skyping with Blaine or working on sketches he instantly declares the most lackluster of his career. His depression is so obvious that Kurt’s boss convinces Isabelle to extend her layover in Paris one dreary Wednesday and gives Kurt the afternoon off to meet her for lunch.

“Is Brant not happy with my work?” Kurt asks in a panic over apéritifs.

Isabelle grasps Kurt’s hand over the table and shakes her head with a soft smile.  
“Of course not, honey,” she says, “but he is worried about you. He says you don’t seem happy here, that you are having trouble adjusting.”

“No!” Kurt instantly denies. “I love the work, I am so grateful for this opportunity! Please, tell him-”

“Kurt, he doesn’t mean in your work. He’s talking about your general outlook.” She tilts her head toward him sadly. “This isn’t just a career opportunity, Kurt. This is a life experience. You’re in Paris! You are working with some of the most promising new minds in fashion design! The world doesn’t stop turning unless you let it. Go out; make some friends, or at least some possible future business connections; see the sights. I promise that New York and everything and everyone you have there will not disappear just because you allow yourself to enjoy your time here.”

He chuckles at her small, knowing smile, and replies, “Yes, fairy godmother.”

* * *  
He follows Isabelle’s advice, of course; and it works, of course. Kurt takes weekend excursions to Versaille and Montmartre, and he develops an intricate and detailed map and timetable that, if his calculations are correct, will allow him to visit every museum once, and the Louvre three times. And he begins spending his down time in the company of his associates; a girl named Melanie whose views on mainstream appropriation of the fashions of sub-cultures Kurt finds fascinating joins him on several museum outings, and Thursday nights the whole group regularly convenes at the hotel bar for stress relief and light socialization.

One night, Kurt and a man called Andrew have an hour-long debate about neck scarves that drives the others to turn in early. Kurt and Andrew order another and then another drink, and talk turns personal. Andrew is twenty-four, a Pratt graduate whose professor -- his very own Isabelle -- “practically forced” Brant to take him on, and is a bisexual man in a long-distance relationship with his artist girlfriend, who lives in Boston. They close the bar discussing men and past relationships, and Andrew invites Kurt to his room, where he enjoys two more glasses of red wine and a wet, but enthusiastic blow job.

* * *  
Kurt wakes in the morning with a throbbing headache, his pants open and sticky cock on full display, and a shirtless Andrew snoring softly against his chest. He’s achy and ashamed, because, despite the flowing alcohol, Kurt had been of sound and clear mind when Andrew had bruisingly kissed Kurt’s wine-stained lips and urged him to recline on the edge of the bed as he dropped to his knees and reached for Kurt’s belt. Kurt extracts himself from Andrew’s embrace and visits the bathroom, popping two pain killers and gulping down a glass of water. He hears the bed creak and a soft moan from the next room as he’s splashing water on his wan face. Kurt squares his shoulders in the mirror, retrieving two more aspirin and filling up a second glass of water to take out to Andrew.

Their conversation is short and surprisingly simple. Both admit to being fully cognizant of their actions the night before, but tactfully confess regret that it happened. They agree to acknowledge, but move past the events of that night, and vow to be friends. Which is a fairly easy promise to keep; there is no sexual tension nor desire between the two men, who reached for each other out of a need for comfort and intimacy. They will interact casually and amiably for the rest of the summer, and no one will harbor any suspicions. Andrew does not intend to tell his girlfriend. Kurt knows he will tell Blaine.

It’s still early in the morning -- barely eight o’clock -- and Blaine took over Kurt’s hours at the diner when he left, so it’s possible that Blaine is online, decompressing after an evening shift. He is.

Kurt has no expectations of this conversation at all. He tells Blaine. He cries. Blaine does not. His shoulder slump and his breath seems to leave his body in one great rush, but he remains calm. He asks Kurt why.

“I don’t know,” Kurt whispers.

Blaine shakes his head.

“I need to process this,” Blaine says, already shifting his body to stand, to move away from the screen and away from Kurt. “I need time.”

“What does that mea-” 

But Blaine logs off before Kurt can finish his sentence, before he can ask if he’s still entitled to wear the ring.

* * *  
Kurt hears nothing from Blaine but radio silence for another two and a half weeks. During that time Kurt works, and he takes walks, and he sketches; which is to say, he thinks. He was honest when he told Blaine he didn’t understand his own actions. But literal days of work that necessitates little more than muscle memory and the faintest of consciousnesses have allowed him to work toward a sense of clarity. The first time infidelity rocked their relationship, it was rooted in Blaine’s insecurity, and his own selfishness. But Blaine has grown into himself, individually and in their relationship. Kurt hasn’t completely. He left home relying on his fortitude to carry him through, but had underestimated the strength he gleans from his proximate support system in New York and, even earlier, in Lima; as a result, his confidence waned, and he stumbled, seeking comfort first in isolation, then in a fleeting intimacy.

Blaine arrives at Kurt’s hotel room unannounced on his last week in Paris; apparently, Blaine’s parents gifted him this trip as an early birthday present, going so far as to book him a seat on Kurt’s return flight. Kurt opens the door and Blaine is in the hall, suitcase at his feet and a map in hand. Kurt meets his eyes and they are damp, but open.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt breathes, falling against Blaine in an embrace that liquefies his bones.

“I know,” Blaine mumbles against his chest, holding him loosely in return. 

Kurt pulls him tighter.

“I need you,” he whimpers, oblivious to the door falling shut behind him and the people casting curious looks as they pass down the hallway. “I know I don’t always show it, I know I e-expect things from you that I take for granted. I know I’m selfish.”

Blaine nods, his stubble scrapping Kurt’s cheek, and Kurt laughs. He pulls back to look into Blaine’s eyes.

“I know all that. But I do need you. I know that, too. And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Blaine says, “and I’ve forgiven you. I have.”

He drops his gaze to his shoes, and his voice softens.

“I know what it’s like to feel lost, to falter. But I need to know if this was about losing faith in yourself, or in us.”

“Myself,” Kurt replies instantly, “I promise. I’ve never felt so far away, I didn’t realize how different it would be having no one around me, I disregarded all the support I had in you and in Rachel and I just --”

Blaine kisses him then, light, but insistent.

“I know, “ he says.

Kurt smirks at him, eyes wet.

“You know everything now?”

Blaine smiles and leans in, running a hand down Kurt’s chest.

“Let me tell you what I know. I know that you felt insecure, and you made a mistake, and you’re sorry. And I know that we love each other and that, if we’re willing, we can make us strong again. And I know that we have a whole week together in Paris to start that process.”

Kurt smiles, standing tall and reaching for Blaine’s suitcase with one hand, clasping Blaine’s hand where it rests on his chest in the other.

“Let’s get started.”


	6. Package for Blaine Anderson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Gift  
> Word Count: 536  
> Format: Text message  
> Rating: PG (?)

Thurs., March 15, 2018 (3:56 p.m.)

To Kurt: Hey, what time should I come over Saturday to help you prep?

(4:02)

To Sam: For what? If you and Blaine are planning some kind of weekend Marvel marathon or something at the apartment again, I have already told you: I take no part in them, and I will not clean up after NOR set up for them.

(4:03)

To Kurt: Dude! Blaine’s birthday dinner?! The one you started hassling me about a month ago.

(4:10)

To Sam: That’s next weekend.

(4:11)

To Kurt: You work too hard, man. It’s this weekend. His birthday is Sunday.

(4:17)

To Sam: SHIT!

(4:18)

To Kurt: Whoa, dude, calm down! It’s a dinner for four. You can do that in a few days. I’ll go shopping or something if you need.

(4:18)

To Sam: It’s not the dinner. Of course I can do the dinner! I organized my parents’ wedding in a week!

(4:20)

To Kurt: So then what’s the problem?

(4:21)

To Sam: Blaine’s present! I meant to find him something amazing, some collector’s item or a piece from his favorite designer’s vintage collection or something. But inspiration never really struck, so I put brainstorming on the back burner for awhile and then with rehearsals and getting drafted for this fucking performer’s guild thing and

(4:22)

To Kurt: So you’ve got nothing?

(4:22)

To Sam: Less than nothing! I don’t even have an idea!

(4:24)

To Kurt: Well, Blaine loves the small, personal stuff, so why don’t you use one of your “natural gifts” to give him a special surprise.

(4: 25)

To Sam: Why is natural gifts in quotations? And we’re in the same theatre troupe, Sam. His job is literally to listen to me sing; we made a “no more serenades” pact years ago.

To Kurt: Not what I meant.

(4:28)

To Sam: ????

(4:29)

To Kurt: …… ;-)

(4:33)

To Sam: Ohmygod

To Kurt: Birthday b.j.! Oh, yeah!

(4:35)

To Sam: Ok, number one: stop getting Blaine drunk and encouraging him to dish about our sex life.

(4:35)

To Sam: Did he really say “natural gift”?

(4:36)

To Kurt: Actually he just called you “gifted.” And I’ll stop doing it when he stops making it so easy to do.

(4:37)

To Sam: Number two: This is the first time I will be giving my beloved husband a birthday present, and you want me to gift him sexual favors?

(4:38)

To Kurt: You could totally class it up, though! Like, mood music and lighting. Oh! And you could tie a ribbon around your dick.

(4:39)

To Sam: So, in this scenario, my gift to Blaine on his birthday is the opportunity to suck me off?

(4:42)

To Kurt: Come on, you and I both know he lives for it. Direct quote.

(4:44)

To Sam: Jesus. Ok, you’re useless. I’m calling Rachel.

(4:45)

To Kurt: I’m telling you, Kurt, you are missing an opportunity to be the greatest husband ever here!

(4:47)

To Sam: Useless. Be at our place at 4p.m. on Saturday.

(4:48)

To Kurt: I’ll bring plenty of ribbon. Just in case.


	7. All I Want For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Human  
> Word Count: 1,025  
> Rating: G

Kurt trudges through the freshly fallen -- and yet already grimy -- snow coating the New York streets at 5:30a.m., muttering a mutinous stream of curses at holiday hours, start-up retail jobs, and midnight snowfalls into the steam rising from his coffee cup. The logical portion of his brain reminds him how lucky he is: a full-time, though admittedly temporary, managerial position at an eclectic boutique whose well-connected owner loves him. And he gets to design the holiday window display.  
It’s an esteemed position, and one for which Kurt and his penchant for whimsical storyboarding defeated three other seasoned employees. The benefits include total creative license, a $150 bonus, and Kurt’s name in swooping black letters in the bottom left corner of the window, followed by the title “chief design coordinator” for one blissful month. The drawback is that Kurt must do all his coordinating at this ungodly hour alone, the other associates assigned to him not required to arrive until an hour before the doors open at 8a.m.  
Still, despite the workload and his new 4 a.m. alarm time, Kurt enjoys the hours he spends alone, arranging joyful, warm scenes always inspired by a favorite holiday song which he insists be piped through the street side speakers all day long. And he especially relishes the opportunity to outfit the mannequins, knowing that during bustle of the holidays designers and critics often wander into undiscovered areas of the city and stores, scouting for inspiration or, if Kurt is very lucky, a new assistant. Kurt flits through the store each morning, plucking accessories from shelves, exploring contrasting patterns, and holding cocktail dresses above his head to inspect their sheet in the light. His window displays are not only creative achievements; they are Kurt’s resume.  
Which is part of the reason Kurt had insisted on ordering all new mannequins; models that reflecting varying body types, shapes, and sizes. Besides the fact that it’s the twenty-first century, and, in Kurt’s opinion, past time to acknowledge that humans are not one size fits all, Kurt is eager to showcase his innovation and versatility. So, apparently, is the owner, who special orders a set of what amount to plastic sculptures of people from a local artist; Kurt’s mannequins have varying facial features, color palettes, and figures that, according to his boss, “highlight the store’s inclusivity and humanity.”  
Besides the fact that Kurt feels a little dirty with his hands up the dress of a hyper-realistic plastic woman, whose eyes bore down on him as he rolls up her stockings and, ridiculously, blushes, Kurt appreciates the new additions. He gleefully displays a gorgeous, deep purple bell skirt on a dark-skinned mannequin whose curves perfectly accentuate the flair of the garment, and enjoys the quiet calm of sweeping up the hair of a petite blonde figure with Grace Kelly regality.   
His favorite, though, is a smaller than average male mannequin with golden skin and a dark, plastic hair helmet -- Kurt assumes the artist ran out of time. The figure’s small shoulders and tapered waist are perfect for the ultra slim fit dress shirts Kurt himself is too broad to feel comfortable in, and the store’s Thom Brown-inspired high water slacks hug its thick thighs and, well, voluptuous ass like a dream.  
At least, these are the attributes Kurt would notice if the mannequin were a human man. Which it is not. So Kurt never thinks such thoughts. Nor has he named the mannequin Blaine Anderson -- Blaine being a name he admires, Anderson being less generic than Smith, but not overtly specific to a nationality or ethnicity. Nope.  
It’s just that Kurt is in New York. During the holiday season. Alone. And though he’s dated plenty in the several years since he escaped Lima, he has never found someone he can connect with. Kurt wants someone similar to himself -- a sweet, romantic, a little naive gentleman; but so far all he’s found are slick, charming, heart-breaking men. So if he puts Blaine in loud, cheerful patterns because he wants a man with a bold, uninhibited spirit; or if he accessorizes every one of Blaine’s outfits with either a bow tie or suspenders -- and sometimes both -- because he craves a mutual sense of whimsy; or if he chooses bold, primary colors for Blaine because he is a simple, heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy. Well, Kurt is just young and lonely and longing for his soulmate.   
And if he got a little tipsy last night and wished on a shooting star for Santa to bring him a living, breathing, anatomically-correct version of Blaine, well, Kurt is only human.  
Kurt unlocks the sliding bars that protect the storefront with frozen fingertips -- fingerless gloves might be fashionable, but they also have their detractions -- and pulls it aside hurriedly. He makes quick work of the door, bustling into the store and jogging immediately into the office to the thermostat to blast the heat. He flips on the lights and heads out to the sales floor, eager to see what new items the restock team brought out overnight.  
“H-hello?” a soft voice calls to him from the front of the store, and Kurt jumps.  
“How the hell did you get in here?” Kurt cries in shock, sizing up the man standing before him. He immediately rules out burglary. Judging by the man’s posture, he’s more frightened than Kurt is; his small shoulders are hunched in fear, his empty hands raised and spread, and his wide eyes shifting nervously around the store. Kurt thinks he might be trembling. Kurt also thinks that he looks strangely familiar.  
“I-I don’t know. I’m just-I’m here,” the man replies, physically recoiling from the volume and tenor of Kurt’s voice.  
Kurt crosses his arms across his chest.  
“Well, what’s your name?”  
The man looks confused for a moment, as if no one has ever asked him such a question, but a moment later he seems to find his answer, perking up and adjusting his bowtie, his full lip curling into warm, happy smile.  
“My name is Blaine Anderson!”


	8. On Thin Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ice  
> Word Count: 392  
> Rating: PG

“I cannot even believe this is happening to me right now,” Blaine groans, head falling against the back of the couch. He wears only a pair of low slung boxers and is slumped deep into the cushions, his left leg propped up on the low coffee table before him.  
From the kitchen where he is dumping several trays of ice cubes into a dish towel, Kurt calls, “You’re the one who keeps insisting on increasingly acrobatic wall sex.”  
“I swear, Kurt, I can hold you easily! I’ve always been able to.”  
Kurt cracks a tray viciously against the countertop, shaking loose the last stubborn cubes into the towel.  
“And I’ve told you that I’m heavier than I used to be,” Kurt replies, “even if I don’t look it. I’ve gained a fair amount of muscle, Blaine.”  
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Blaine murmurs, his eyes sweeping over Kurt’s own underwear-clad form as he approaches, makeshift ice pack in hand.  
“I just lost my footing, is all,” he explains as Kurt kneels at his side and gently lowers the leaking towel onto Blaine’s swollen ankle. Blaine hisses.  
“Well,” Kurt says as he shifts the ice pack to peek at Blaine’s injury, “either way, it’s not broken. Not even sprained, I think. Can you move it?”  
Blaine winces as he slowly rotates his foot; it’s certainly painful, but he isn’t in total agony. Kurt nods his head absent-mindedly, muttering, “Thank god,” under his breath.  
“Well,” he says, bracing a hand on Blaine’s thigh to hoist himself off the floor, “I’m going to get you some pain relievers.”  
But Blaine puts a hand over his to stop him.  
“Wait,” he says, “what if we took my mind off this pain I’m suffering in a different way?”  
Kurt stares blankly up at him, so Blaine waggles his eyebrows and shifts further back into the couch, sliding Kurt’s hand higher up his thigh.  
“Are you kidding?” Kurt scoffs, and Blaine grins.  
“Well, you are already on your knees.”  
Kurt rolls his eyes and pulls his hand away, rising quickly and turning toward the bathroom.  
“I’m getting you some aspirin, and then I’m pretending you don’t exist.”  
Blaine whines loudly.  
“So, what am I supposed to do with this?” he asks, gesturing to his lap, where his shorts are, remarkably, still half tented.   
Kurt smirks.  
“You’ve got plenty of ice.”


	9. In Perfect Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Key  
> Word Count: 148  
> Rating: PG

“Hey, dude.”

“Oh, hey, man.”

“So, question: What key were you and Kurt in the other night?”

“What?”

“You know, when you guys were dueting in his room?”

“Uh, Kurt and I weren’t singing in his room last night.”

“Really? ‘Cuz you two were definitely making some _sweet music_.”

“...Oh, god. I’m sorry, Sam.”

“No, you guys sounded great. I mean, I knew Kurt had range, but you were really nailing those high notes.”

“I’m sorry, but Kurt left his white noise machine in New York, and -- “

“No, don’t be! I only wish I’d thought to record it.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Sam.”

“Did you ever think of including Tina in an ensemble piece? I bet she’d jump at the chance!”

“Okay, I think you’re being unreasonable, so I’m going now.”

“Just remember, bro, I’ll be sure to have my cell prepped next time.”

“Noted.”


	10. Movin' Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Loft  
> Word Count: 452  
> Rating: PG  
> Warnings: Reference to Finn

“ _Please_ tell me that was the last one,” Santana groans as she and Rachel trudge through the open door, her voice bouncing off the bare walls of the now empty and seemingly gaping space of the loft.

Kurt, meandering through the open arena searching for forgotten or discarded personal effects, replies sharply, “Blaine is checking the bathroom now, but all that seems to be here are the dust bunnies I asked you specifically to clean up.”

Santana shrugs and mutters, “It’s not my safety deposit,” as Blaine emerges from the second room, calling out jovially, “Nothing in here!”

The four friends almost unconsciously arrange themselves in a line before the door, surveying the empty loft before them.

“It’s kind of sad,” Blaine laments with a sigh.

“The end of an era,” Rachel murmurs in a choked voice, though it was at her suggestion that they give up the loft after their two-year lease runs out.

Kurt suspects that it’s too difficult for her now to occupy this space, where memories of Finn and lost love and wasted opportunity hang stifling in the air despite that fact that Kurt meticulously stores his brother’s photos and memorabilia when he knows Rachel is in the loft. Still, the idea of leaving it and the last physical sense of his presence -- not to mention the home he and Rachel built for themselves here in the city, and opened first to Santana and then to Blaine -- comes with its own chill of sorrow and loss.

Santana must also have her suspicions, for she cradles Rachel’s small form with an arm around her shoulders, and says gently, “Don’t get all weepy on us. You and I are going to live in a girls-only pleasure palace with Dani. And her place is only a ten minute walk from her majesty and the hobbit’s love shack.”

“Santana’s right,” Blaine nods, bouncing quickly back from his melancholy. “We’ll probably see each other more passing on the street than we ever did living here with all our crazy schedules!”

“And there will still be band practice,” Kurt prods, reaching to grasp Rachel’s hand.

“Think of it this way,” Santana says as she jostles Rachel’s shoulders, a familiar, taunting lilt creeping into her voice, “never again will you know about, hear, or witness the wanky, depraved mating habits of Tweedle Deep and Tweedle Deeper Throat over there.”

Rachel giggles, Kurt scoffs, and Blaine whimpers as he turns crimson.

“Thank god!” Rachel laughs, and Kurt tisks and turns on his heel out the door, Blaine following behind. Rachel and Santana share a look of fond amusement before heading out themselves, Santana’s hand a light, anchoring touch on the small of Rachel’s back.


	11. Near Misses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Message  
> Word Count: 498  
> Rating: G  
> Warnings: Blink and you miss it Finn reference  
> Format: This is in partial voice message format; I have included the date and times of the messages, as well as markers that indicate when a new one begins, but after the initial introductions of the character’s recorded greetings, they are not repeated, for brevity’s sake.

**Fri., March 3, 2013 12:15p.m.**

_Hello, you’ve reached Blaine Anderson! I’m not able to answer your call right now, so if you would be so kind as to leave your name and phone number after the tone, I will get back to you as soon as I possibly can. Have a great day!_

***beep***

Hi, babe, it’s me! Just calling to see how your day is going; I thought I could catch you at lunch, but you must be eating off campus with Sam or cramming in the library. Well, call me when you can, I’m out of class at four. Love you!

**4:10p.m.**

_Hi, this is Kurt Hummel. Please leave a brief message and I will return your call shortly. Thank you._

***beep***

Hey there, stranger! It’s a little after four, and I just got out of rehearsal. Total bedlam. Marley refuses to learn choreo from Jake; Ryder tried to white knight for Marley when Jake called her a “total prude”, and she ended up yelling at _him_ for fifteen minutes while Unique and Tina berated Jake. And Mr. Schue just kind of sat there, not quite knowing what to do. So that’s my “top this” story. Sam and I are working out in about a half hour, then I’ve got dinner with the Hudmels, though it’s always sad without both you and -- well. Call me later tonight? I love you.

**7:45p.m.**

***beep***

Blaine, it’s me. Listen, I’m _so_ sorry, but I’m picking up a late shift at the diner. The extra cash is a must-have if Elliott and I are going to make new outfits for Pamela Lansbury in time for our next gig. I’ll try you when I get off around two, but don’t wait up! I miss you so much. I’m sorry, again.

**1:30a.m.**

***beep***

Hi, honey. I’m sorry, I want to talk to you tonight, I really do, but this week is catching up with me and I don’t thinking I’m going to make it much longer. I love you, and I promise to be waiting impatiently by the phone for your call tomorrow morning. I love you so much, Kurt. Good night.

**2:15a.m.**

“Hi, baby. I just wanted to wish you good ni-”

“Hey, Kurt,” Blaine says, voice a bit thick with sleep, but present nonetheless.

“Blaine?” Kurt asks, pulling his phone back to glance at the screen. “I’m sorry, I was kind of zoning out and I just assumed I’d get your machine again, but...you’re up?”

Blaine smiles and stifles a yawn. “I am. I wanted to hear your voice. You know, in real time. So I set my alarm and woke up at two.”

“Oh, that’s so -- I mean, you -- I mean,” Kurt stumbles, breathing out a weary, happy sigh and starting over. “Hi.”

Blaine grins, burrowing into his pillow and turning toward the picture of Kurt resting on his nightstand.” “Hi. So, you start. Tell me everything.”


	12. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Neon  
> Word Count: 102  
> Rating: G

“ _Blaine_ ,” Kurt exhales, slightly breathless at the sight before him. His own name, shining in blue neon light above his dressing table, casts a dim, ethereal glow about the otherwise dark room.

Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt’s waist and kisses his neck, whispering, “Happy birthday.”

When Kurt remains speechless, Blaine prompts, “Do you not like it?”

“I love it,” Kurt insists, “though I did think that the first time I saw my name in lights it would be on Broadway. Or a fantasy sequence.”

Blaine snuffles his laugh into the dip of Kurt’s shoulder and replies, “Consider this a rehearsal, then.”


	13. Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Overture  
> Word Count: 214  
> Rating: G

Everyone assumes Blaine is the hopeless romantic of his relationship, and his penchant for grandiose public serenades certainly supports that fact. But, while Kurt’s gestures are more private and understated, the sincerity and freedom with which Kurt offers them often leaves Blaine breathless and, in his own humble opinion, completely outdone.

Typically they are small, inconsequential gifts: One day Blaine pulls his paper bag lunch from his bag and finds that Kurt has decorated the front with a red Sharpie, a dozen cartoon hearts of various sizes arranged artfully around the words, “My True Love’s Lunch;” another day Blaine unlocks his iPhone and sees that Kurt has added an announcement to the homepage that reads, “Blaine Anderson is the most handsome, talented, and sexy man in New York City;” and last week Blaine came home to the loft after a tedious day of classes to a candlelit picnic laid out on the floor, cushy pillows to recline on and chilled white wine to sooth his tension.

Blaine calls them Kurt’s overtures. Small tokens of affection that carry Blaine to the end of day, when he is lucky enough to crawl into a cool bed and burrow himself deep in Kurt’s arms, gorging himself on the warmth and unadulterated love radiating from his eyes.


	14. Bedtime Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 178  
> Rating: G  
> Prompt: River
> 
> Based on this children’s book.

“If you were a river, I would want to be your bank,” Blaine says one night to Kurt, lazily running his hand up and down the sleek line of Kurt’s naked back. Kurt blames the lingering haze of his recent orgasm for his sedated reply.  
“And why am I a river?” he asks lightly, smiling up at Blaine from where his head rests tenderly on Blaine’s chest.  
“Because you are always in motion, and nothing throws you off course, and no one knows where you will go next, except you.”  
Kurt smiles into Blaine’s light fur, kissing his chest and prodding, “Ok. And why are you the bank to my river?”  
“Because,” Blaine says softly, “the bank of a river is where it begins, where it ends, and where it’s traveling to. Simultaneously.”  
There is a quiet still, and Blaine expects a teasing lecture on realism in romance or taking their five year-old’s bedtime stories to heart. Instead, Kurt nestles himself deeper into Blaine’s arms, nose brushing the curve of his neck, and breathes, “Sounds about right.”


	15. In Case of Emergency...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 642  
> Rating: G  
> Prompt: Stitches

Kurt hears the tinkle of broken glass and Blaine’s panicked shout of, “Oh, shit!” from across the apartment. And while, granted, their shoebox in the Village isn’t exactly spacious, the fact that Blaine almost never swears, nor raises his voice except in song triggers Kurt’s emergency reflexes.  
“What?” he cries, sliding into the small kitchen on socked feet. “What is it?”  
Blaine is hunched over the kitchen sink, faucet spitting water onto his right hand while he prods a finger hesitantly and hisses.  
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Blaine replies weakly, turning his pale face toward Kurt and offering him a shaky smile. “I cut my finger on a wine glass. It slipped.”  
Kurt makes to step forward, but Blaine’s face contorts in alarm, his hands coming up to block Kurt’s advance.  
“Stop!” he cries. “There’s glass all over the floor!”  
But Kurt isn’t looking at the shattered glass littering the linoleum; his eyes are locked on the ring finger of Blaine’s right hand, where blood is flowing freely and copiously from a small, but deep gash shaped like an arrowhead.  
“Blaine, you’re really bleeding,” Kurt says stupidly, swaying dangerously on his feet. “Your finger is r-red.”  
“Kurt? You look queasy. Are you-”  
Blaine’s voice fades slowly into the thick, peaceful buzz that consumes Kurt’s mind and clouds his vision, and he is unconscious halfway through his slump into the kitchen chair beside him.  
* * *  
Kurt wakes very suddenly, on his back on the cold kitchen floor.  
“Hey, honey,” Blaine says sweetly, pushing Kurt’s unwashed hair off of his cold, sweaty forehead.  
Kurt hears movement in the living room area of the apartment, and turns his head to see several paramedics packing up their gear and shuffling out the door. One sits on his haunches and sees to Kurt, checking his vitals and asking him a series of simple questions that do little to ground Kurt next to the solid weight of Blaine’s hand clasping his. The medic murmurs a few parting instructions to Blaine about suture care before ambling out the door. Kurt’s hand is halfway to his own forehead to check for wounds before he remembers.  
“Oh!” he breathes, reaching out to cradle Blaine’s cheek in his hand. “You were hurt. Are you hurt? What happened?”  
Blaine chuckles.  
“I’m fine,” he insists, turning his head to kiss Kurt’s palm lightly. “I got four stitches on my finger and it will probably scar, but I’m okay.”  
Kurt slumps against the cabinet he is currently resting against, having shifted to a semi-prone position with Blaine and the paramedic’s assistance. Blaine’s face lights up and he reaches toward his bandaged finger.  
“Want to see?”  
Kurt snatches his wrist away, eyes shutting prematurely.  
“I think that’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”  
Kurt opens his eyes to a chuckling Blaine gazing at him with that open adoration that never fails to floor Kurt.  
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Kurt breathes, and Blaine’s brow furrows.  
“What?”  
“I’m sorry I passed out. I’m sorry I didn’t bandage your finger and call you a cab and hold your hand while they stitched you up. I’m sorry.”  
Blaine scoffs.  
“Kurt,” he tisks, “we take care of each other. You needed my help more than I did yours-this time.”  
“Technically, we both needed trained medical assistance,” Kurt deadpans.  
“Well,” Blaine replies, “I still need you in my life. For things.”  
Kurt smirks and raises an eyebrow.  
“Like what?”  
Blaine grins.  
“Well, that, of course. But, right now, I need you to put your inner home design critic aside and commit to only acrylic tumblers from now on.”  
Kurt’s despondent wail is louder than Blaine’s original cry, but a week and a half later, all the glassware in the apartment has been replaced by plastic, and Kurt insists on personally applying anti-scarring cream to Blaine’s crusted wound twice daily.


	16. Blaine Anderson’s Bushwick Loft Sex Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 915  
> Rating: G  
> Prompt: Vodka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few prompts ago, I wrote a little drabble that played with the idea that a) Blaine Anderson is a lightweight (which we kinda knew), and b) Sam loves to encourage him to reveal details of his sex life. I return to this idea here, but throw in Santana, who, as usual, takes the whole thing to an entirely new level.

By the time Kurt turns in around midnight, Blaine has ceded his bartending duties to Sam, which means the ratio of vodka to orange juice in Blaine’s drinks has tipped stealthily and steadily in the favor of alcohol. Blaine watches with bleary, lustful eyes at Kurt’s retreating backside until the curtain swishes closed behind him. It’s just Sam, Blaine, and Santana left in the common room, sprawled across cushions and pillows on the floor and surrounded by half full, abandoned drinks; the awkward tension in the room is palpable.  
“I love Kurt’s ass,” Blaine blurts suddenly, still gazing distantly at the pulled curtain that leads to he and Kurt’s room. Sam snorts; Santana rolls her eyes.  
“That’s great. Drink up, buddy,” Sam says, downing his own drink and reaching for Blaine’s cup. Blaine tosses back the dregs of his own drink and hands his glass off to Sam.  
“No, but, really. I. Love. Kurt’s. Ass,” Blaine insists, swaying a bit to the side as he sits cross-legged.  
“How many have you had, short stack?” Santana asks. “Because this night is not ending in you ralphing all over my blanket.”  
“He hasn’t had that much, he’s just a lightweight,” Sam murmurs to her, “This is prime time, trust me.”  
Sam hands Blaine his next drink, plopping down next to his friend and throwing an arm around him.  
“Hey,” he cries over-animately, “I just got a great idea! Let’s play a game of Truth.”  
“Don’t you mean Truth or Dare?” Santana asks.  
“Nope,” Sam says, ruffling Blaine’s hair, “just Truth. No excuses, no escapes!”  
Blaine nods eagerly, and Santana shrugs disinterestedly.  
“I’ll go first,” Sam grins, and nudges Blaine’s temple with his shoulder, where Blaine’s head has slowly come to rest. “Where’s the kinkiest place you’ve ever gotten it on?”  
Blaine’s face very slowly breaks into a grin, giggles rippling silently through his small frame.  
Santana raises an eyebrow and props herself up on her elbow in interest.  
“Out with it, Prince Charming.”  
“K-Kurt and I once made love in a stall in the girl’s room at McKinley.”  
“Why the girl’s room?” Santana asks, but Sam waves his hand to silence her.  
“Next question!” he announces. “Where in this apartment have you and Kurt done the nasty?”  
“Wait, that question is way too specific, and we never even answer-” Santana begins, but Sam repeats his gesture with more force and points to Blaine, whose bottom lip is caught between his teeth as he considers.  
“I’m not sure I could list them all,” Blaine says, looking slightly overwhelmed, and Sam widens his eyes at Santana and waves his arm wildly to encourage her assistance.  
A mischievous gleam alights in Santana’s eyes, and she rises a bit unsteadily and heads toward the loft’s community desk.  
“Wait! Wait!” she cries, rummaging through drawers until she pulls out several pads of sticky notes in various colors. “Lady Hummel’s love of color coding is about to come in handy!”  
* * *  
Blaine wakes with a throbbing head and achy joints, a dry and foul-tasting mouth, and a blue post it stuck to his cheek, for some unknown reason. He rises with a groan, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and the cool of Kurt’s side of the bed all that entices him to slip from beneath the covers. Blaine tosses aside the curtain and pads toward the kitchen, where Kurt is leaning with a steaming cup against the counter; Santana and Sam are seated at the kitchen table, both sporting blurry, crusted eyes and nursing their own coffees; and Rachel is giggling into her cornflakes, newly arrived from a weekend visit to Lima. Kurt sets his cup down when he spots Blaine, meeting him in the entrance to the kitchen area with a glass of water and two ibuprofen.  
“Rough morning?” he asks gently, kissing Blaine’s cheek. Blaine nods and moans pitifully, accepting Kurt’s offers with a grateful whimper.  
“It’s about to get worse,” Santana sing-songs, and though she still looks haggard, she manages a gleeful smirk and raises her eyebrows toward the loft door.  
Which is when Blaine finally notices the banner. It’s strung haphazardly across the door, lettering written in red marker by a clearly unsteady hand, and reads, “Blaine Anderson’s Bushwick Loft Sex Tour.”  
“Wha-” Blaine begins, and turns in a circle, surveying the loft and noticing now dozens of multi-colored sticky notes littering the apartment.  
“From what we can tell from the conveniently placed key we found on the table,” Santana offers with a wink, “blue is for a blow job, pink for a handy, and green stands for a very happy ending. The name on the note is the one on the receiving end.”  
Blaine is gaping at the occupants of the kitchen, of whom Sam is the only one who seems to grasp the severity of Blaine’s mortification.  
“I’m sorry, dude,” he gushes. “You kept going on, and the stories got more and more detailed, and I passed out before she did most of this, but-still. Sorry.”  
Blaine turns to Kurt, who, miraculously, shrugs.  
“Your hangover is punishment enough,” he says. “Besides, most of these are kind of assumed, don’t you think?”  
“Kurt Elizabeth Hummel,” Rachel screeches suddenly from her room, where she had retreated with little more than a sympathetic glance toward Blaine, “why is there a green Post-It on my antique hope chest?!”  
Kurt smirks and drops another kiss to Blaine’s cheek before heading toward the bathroom for a shower.  
“Well,” he quips, “except that one, maybe.”


End file.
